


There For You

by Tallihensia



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Character Background, Comforting, Cuddling, Defining Moments, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I just wanted the cuddles and lot what all else happened, Loyalty, M/M, Missing Scene, Nightmares, PTSD, Pre-Slash, Pre-Slash to Slash, Slash, character past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 16:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9131665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tallihensia/pseuds/Tallihensia
Summary: In the movie, after Victoria leaves (after the ship yard incident), Napoleon has a nightmare/PTSD flashback.  Illya, who was still monitoring, goes up to help him come back to himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning/Disclaimer** – there is a PTSD scene in this fic which is plot device for a lead-up for the cuddling. This is not meant to make light of PTSD, which is a very serious issue for a great many people. There are a great many very serious issues used as plot devices in fics, and this happens to be the one used here. There are a variety of ways in which PTSD happens to those who suffer, and this fic has used one – it is not the only one. I also wouldn't recommend Illya's method for dealing with it (at least initially o.o) If anybody you know suffers from PTSD, do not use this fic as a guide, but talk to them about their condition and the specifics for what you can do in their case if they suffer a flashback while you are around.
> 
>  **Notes:**  
>  More or less a companion piece to Do or Die, though a different timeline, alternative missing scene. This is the other idea I was playing with at the same time. A heck of a lot slashier and more serious. And cuddles. Because, well. Cuddles.
> 
> Both of these came about because for the Gift Exchange fics, I basically was writing with the movie on continuous loop so I could get the character voices and personalities right. And I apparently overdosed on it, because a frickin week after and it's still running through my head and I haven't even *watched* it in all that time sense. But... have a couple more ficlets out of it while it's in my brain. There were a lot of missing scenes in the movie. :)
> 
> (Which I have to say while I'm at it – I'm STILL annoyed that the dvds are altered from the movie. WTF was that all about? Made the dvds before the final release and then kept working on the movie? Anyhow, it drives me nuts whenever I see those weirdly altered scenes... Why can't we have the same thing we saw in the theater? Why? It's just weird.)

## There For You

After learning about the call from Uncle Rudi's while they'd been gone, and the meeting set for the next day, a weary Illya took himself and his cases off to the bathing room. It was an absurdly large room, though very handy for a workshop area. In this case, though, he needed a shower. 

Cold and still somewhat damp from the sea, Illya struggled with his clothes, peeling them off a body that exhaustion and chills made clumsy. There had been a surge of adrenaline, racing Victoria up to their rooms, but now that Cowboy was... 

Illya cut off that line of thought, glancing towards the receptor. He would have to turn it on again, in case Victoria said anything important, or the American accidentally let anything slip. It would be useful to know how the American planned to persuade her he wasn't the thief who broke into the safe tonight. Bed-play alone wasn't going to do it with Victoria Vinciguerra.

First, though... he got the last of his clothing off and went to the shower, gradually turning up the heat as his body warmed until steam filled the room and he could finally breathe again. His throat was raw, his chest hurt. He had coughed and coughed and tried not to cough or to simply cough quietly, but there still felt like there was water inside his lungs.

Solo had saved him. Somehow. The American hadn't talked about it, simply guiding Illya from the sea to the docks to the outside where he'd hotwired a little moped, barely big enough for both of them. Not really big enough for both of them. Illya had felt absurd, perched behind Solo, holding onto him for stability and warmth. The American hadn't complained. 

Finally turning the water off, Illya turned the receptor on low, listening to the murmur of voices among the moans. He dried himself with a towel, thinking about Napoleon Solo. 

CIA's best, somebody who had managed to steal Gaby Schmitt-Teller and get her across the wall. Oh, Illya had been furious with him for that, not to mention the final indignity of dropping him in the mine field. The CIA agent was ruthless. He'd shot at Illya before Illya had offered any harm to either of them, though the KGB had its own reputation, so Illya couldn't say it mayn't have been. But... it was a good thing Illya had been looking for the CIA agent, wondering where in the car he might have been. He'd seen the movement barely in time to throw himself back, the bullets shattering glass over him. Then the mine field, while staring him right in the eyes. Deliberately and definitively. It was luck alone he hadn't blown up.

Napoleon Solo killed easily, and he worked alone. They may not have found the safe without Illya, but it was an empty safe and the alarm wouldn't have been set off if they hadn't found it. If Illya had drowned... what would it have hurt Solo? So Miss Teller's finance was KGB and had died in a ship yard raid... would that put her out of the running? Maybe... maybe not. Teller was cool enough, she might have been able to play it out still, now that the contact had already been made. 

This whole scenario was too precarious for Illya's liking. Half-hazard and fumbling around. Days of execution instead of weeks, putting Illya in a role he was ill-suited for. Illya was annoyed that this assignment was so very late and so very much prone to games by the handlers. If he had been allowed to just take Solo before he'd made contact with Schmitt, or if he'd been given the assignment and started after Vinciguerra weeks ago when Dr. Teller had briefly surfaced... Badly-handled from the start. Not that Illya would admit that to anybody else at all.

Solo would have no compunction saying it out loud and directly to his superiors. Though the CIA did have their own hold over him.

Solo had saved him. The spy who had tried to kill him when they'd first met... had saved him instead.

Illya sat on the floor and hugged his knees, listening to the sounds from the room above and wondered.

....

Victoria left after several impressive hours. 

Illya couldn't tell from sound alone, but the tale that Napoleon had spun was well-enough constructed, and casually enough brought in during their pillow talk, that it was possible. If Victoria had nothing else... if she liked him well enough... she might believe him. She'd sounded like she'd liked him. Liked what he did, at least. And didn't press him on the story, just made another appointment and left. About the same time as Miss Teller's appointment with her uncle, in fact.

Napoleon was probably safe. If she believed him. 

Illya's own position was more precarious. He was more recognizable and had already drawn attention to himself with the Italians. However good it had felt to show them that running in packs didn't make them top dogs, it had, perhaps, been something he should not have done. Ill-suited for this role, all the way around. 

There was a moan over the receiver, and Illya's head snapped up. Victoria was gone. Napoleon was asleep... or should have been.

The moan changed to a cry, a wail of anguish. Then rage. Something shattered on the floor above them.

Illya turned off the receiver and dashed out of the bathroom, barely stopping to grab the key to the American's room as he passed through the living room. He heard Miss Teller stir in the bedroom but didn't stop.

Up the stairs, a quick glance down the hall, and over to the room. He could hear Napoleon yelling at the Nazis to die, all of them, die.

Unlocking the door and then coming through in a rush, Illya brought up his gun in the ready, but there was nobody in the living room. The yelling continued in the bedroom, German curses mixed with English ones. 

Illya couldn't hear anybody else in the room. More cautiously, he silently padded to the bedroom door and looked in. 

Napoleon was there by himself, his gun in his hand, pointing it at... nothing. His eyes were seeing something, but not what was there by the words he was saying. 

"Murdering bastards! You'll pay, every one of you. Die, as he died."

Heaving a sigh, Illya went to the front door and closed and locked it again. Then he carefully put his gun in a drawer and closed it. He evaluated himself for other threats, but he'd come down in only his undershirt and pajama bottoms, having started to change for bed after Victoria had left. Outwardly, he didn't have any other threats on him. However, his size and person alone might be a problem. Well, he couldn't do anything about that.

Illya went to the bedroom again, and watched Napoleon while he stayed out of sight himself.

Luckily, for as much as the other was talking about killing the Nazis, he didn't seem like he was going to start shooting the gun he held. 

Napoleon's movements were off, not as smooth, as coordinated as he usually was. More like a new-trained soldier. Also, he was holding himself as if he was wounded on one side, favoring it. Illya didn't think he actually was.

The gun was the priority. Narrowing his eyes, Illya determined that the safety was off. That was bad.

Napoleon stopped mid-rant and turned a slow circle, his eyes still unfocused, but his awareness somewhere between where he'd been and here. He must have sensed Illya. Also bad.

Gathering himself, Illya waited until Napoleon had turned the circuit and was starting another sweep. Then he lunged in, the gun his focus. Napoleon brought it up to bear even as Illya came towards him, but Illya was not where Napoleon thought he'd be, and he was able to move to one side of him and get the gun, twisting it easily from Napoleon's grasp. Proving again, that this was not the Napoleon Solo he was used to dealing with. 

While Napoleon tried to attack him, Illya slipped the safety on, then threw the gun under the bed, aiming for the middle as far towards the wall as it would go, where it wouldn't be within easy reach.

Then he wrestled Napoleon down and got him in another head-lock. Much, much, easier than it had been before. 

Napoleon went down cursing in German, English, and Spanish.

Humm... Illya started talking to him in Russian, careful not to let up on his grip. 

""Все хорошо, война закончилась, ты в безопасности, мы здесь, все нормально, все в порядке." -- Vse khorosho, voyna zakonchilas', ty v bezopasnosti, my zdes', vse normal'no, vse v poryadke. -- It's okay, the war is over, you are safe, we are here, it is okay, everything is all right.

Napoleon's struggles to get out of his hold were very real and potentially could hurt himself, unlike the first time, when Napoleon had recognized the danger and his struggles were mostly to show he wasn't giving up but he wasn't seriously trying to break it.

Illya continued, still in Russian, "The world has moved on, those before are dead, we are past that, from that moment, things got better, then they got worse, then better, but that is life, and that is living. We survive, we move on, we continue. We are here in Italy on a new mission for the world. You are my partner, my friend,---" Illya paused in his dialog briefly, then continued hurriedly on, "we are working together on important project." He gave a brief summary of what their mission.

As Illya kept speaking, Napoleon slowly stopped struggling and lay still in his arms. Illya didn't release the hold, not yet.

"Tonight, when we got back, while you were occupied, I briefed Miss Teller. She reported her uncle called while we were out, supposedly to apologize for his rudeness to me, they set up another meeting for tomorrow."

Napoleon stirred. In Russian, he asked, "What was he rude about?"

Of all the things for his Cowboy to pick up on. Illya snorted and released his grip, letting his legs fall to the floor finally, bringing his arms down from around Napoleon's neck to rest his hands loosely on Napoleon's chest. He didn't answer.

Napoleon turned his head from side to side, testing. "No, really, first I've heard about this." He tilted his head back to look at Illya upside down. "Was that... Was that what set you off?"

Illya sighed. "Da. He..." Illya thought about the words, thought about the man staring into his face, thought about the Nazis killing so many of his people... He didn't know a single person personally who had not lost family or friends to the war, and often, they had not been the soldiers but the people on the farms and countryside as they had come through. 

The West criticized the Soviet Union for the reparations they forced on the East Germany, and pointed out how the people were starving. What they didn't realize, or care, was that much of Russia was still starving as well, and had been since the war. The East Germans bled,... it was still not enough. It may not be right, but it was what it was.

Napoleon's hand closed gently around Illya's fist clenched tight. "I knew what buttons to push as well. You're too easy, Peril." He'd reverted back to English for the idioms and stayed there.

Illya snorted. "You were testing, and I reacted, but... you were testing. You didn't _believe_ all you said. I could walk away from you. I am often tested.

"Rudi..." Illya closed his eyes. "He meant every word. He tested... but was sincere that his family would not mix blood of a thoroughbred with that of cart horse."

There was a brief pause. "Ouch," Napoleon said, lightly but also sincerely.

"Gaby rebuked, but only lightly, she did not feel it."

"And the Italian boys were there."

Illya laughed a little. "They told me to use ladies room."

"Ouch," Napoleon said again but this time he was laughing as well. "Ah, Peril... what are we to do with you?"

Illya shrugged, the movement shifting Napoleon across his chest. "Will be over soon."

Napoleon was quiet for awhile. "One way or the other." He paused with enough wait that the change of topic was clear when he said, "Sorry."

Holding Cowboy like this, not for containment, but just... holding. It felt good. Better than it probably should. "Is okay. Not big deal."

Shifting around, Napoleon didn't quite leave... but it was close. He almost did physically, and did take a few steps away mentally, the change being something that Illya could feel in more than the body lying on his. 

"It's not something that happens often." Another type of laughter, this one sour – so many expressions in one sound, so appropriate for Napoleon. "I would not be a very effective spy, if it happened a lot. It takes..." Napoleon hesitated.

"Certain events?" Illya asked. Most of the people he knew had reactions, all to different things, usually quite different in what they did. More he knew tried to hide, or curled up. But some... some fought.

"Yes." Napoleon turned until he was facing Illya and separated from him. Both of them now sitting on the floor, close, but distance between.

"The firefight in the warehouse?" Illya asked. It was common.

Napoleon snorted. "If that would do it, I'd be a wreck every other week."

Illya raised his eyebrows.

"Okay, maybe not that often," Napoleon conceded, "but I get shot at an awful lot as a spy."

"I never shot at you," Illya couldn't resist pointing out. He'd shot a tire, he'd shot the roof hatch. He'd never shot at Napoleon. Though his orders had been not to hurt the woman and Napoleon had been careful not to separate too far from her.

"No, you didn't," Napoleon acknowledged gravely. He quirked a little grin at Illya, reasserting some of their connection, the distance between them receding. 

Then he got back to the issue. "I had a friend." 

The silence this time went on as Napoleon stared at nothing, or perhaps at his memories.

"You do not need to tell," Illya said softly, offering it with no expectations.

"I think I do." Napoleon lifted his chin and looked straight at Illya, the filtered night light accenting the shadows on his face.

Illya shrugged. He didn't. But Illya wasn't going to stop him if he wanted. He would never stop him. When had that happened?

"I had a fr---" Napoleon stopped again. "I had a lover. In the army. We were young, it was new. The war was mostly over, but not quite. Hitler had killed himself, but he had not surrendered, and those young idealists of his... they were younger even than us. We were young. They... they would not reason. We were hunting them out, wherever they'd gone to ground. There was a quiet break before we moved on. My lover and I, we slipped away for something more than bunking could let us have.

"It was not so quiet after all. They came up on us, and..." Napoleon's face was pinched in pain. "I was on top. The bullets went through my side, my hip, my leg. They hit him in his face, his chest... I was watching him, loving him, and he died."

Illya usually tried not to have feelings on missions, they complicated things. But he'd already screwed this mission up so badly... he couldn't resist the surge his heart gave for a young soldier so many years away.

Napoleon sighed and looked away. "The firefight. You. Victoria. Three things. It... does not happen, so very often. Not in that combination."

Him? What had Illya to do with... oh. He'd died. Drowned and died and Napoleon had had to haul his lifeless body out of the water. 

Illya wished that Napoleon was still in his arms so he could hold him a little tighter and show him his heart still beat and that he lived.

Which was not the point Napoleon had been making with his laying out of the connections, but it was what Illya felt right now.

"So... won't happen again." Napoleon's light tones were forced. "I apologize for making you come up... how did you know to come up?" Napoleon glanced around the room, frowning. Then he stood and started prowling, checking it out.

Illya snorted. He lowered himself completely to the floor and crawled under the bed until he could reach out and get the gun. It was about where he'd meant it to go – center by the wall. He was too large to be crawling under beds. Carefully, he wiggled his way out again.

Napoleon was watching him in utter fascination, having turned on the lights in the meantime.

"Your gun," Illya said wryly, and handed it to him.

"Oh." Napoleon lost a lot of his cockiness upon realizing just how close he gotten in the reliving. He checked the gun, unchambering the bullet and putting the safety back on. Then he placed it in his bedside table, slipping it into the holster it was normally kept in. 

Illya watched him, thinking he was so very, very much in trouble.

Napoleon cleared his throat. "Well, I guess we should go back to bed. Excitement's all done for the night. I..." he wavered. "I'm just going to..." Napoleon retreated to the bath room.

Wow. Illya had never thought to see it. Even the times when they had been sparing, when Illya had gotten the best of the Cowboy, he'd simply withdrawn or deflected, not retreated. The clothing shop for Gaby, that had been a withdrawal. The crappy American bugs... that had been a deflection with a parting shot. He'd never...

Illya stood up and evaluated his choices. They needed to get some sleep. They had to work in the morning and there was precious little of the night left as it was. 

Cowboy was never going to get back to sleep. Not after this. Not with all the memories, old and new, and all else that they contained.

They all needed to be at their best tomorrow, or as best as they could be. So. The direction was clear.

Illya dusted himself off, then lifted the bed covers and climbed in.

When Napoleon came back from the rest room, he stopped in the middle of the room, completely nonplused. "Illya..."

"To sleep, Cowboy. Only to sleep. But we will sleep the better for it."

"So you say..." Napoleon murmured. Then he gave a little smile and a shrug, turned out the lights, and came to bed.

Illya turned and wrapped himself around Napoleon, who curled into him just as easily. Mixing their leg-space, their bodies close, their arms over and under, their faces near.

"Goodnight, Peril."

"Goodnight, Cowboy."

Sleep was easy and came quickly. If Illya dreamed, he didn't remember it. It was the best rest he'd had in a very long time.

...

The next day, after Gaby left, Illya turned to Napoleon. "She would not expect less. And... she is so..."

Napoleon smiled easily. "I know, Illya. I know." He packaged up the receiver with deft hands and then handed it to Illya. "Stay safe, Peril. Look after our little bird."

"I will," Illya promised, taking the receiver. "You too, Cowboy. And..." he hesitated. "I'll be there for you, as well. If... if you need me."

Napoleon smiled lazily, and confidently, and predatorily. "Why Peril, you smooth talker. Same lines and everything."

Illya huffed. He wasn't the smooth talker and never would be.

Napoleon stepped in, past the safe zone, and put himself even closer. He put a hand behind Illya's head and drew him inevitably in, giving a kiss with no hesitation and letting there be no missed chances. Withdrawing just a little bit, he murmured so that Illya could feel the words as breath upon his lips, "That's how you do it, Peril."

Then Napoleon kissed him again, lingering a little before letting him go and stepping back again.

"Better follow before they get out of range." Napoleon's confident smirk was back in place, saying all was right with the world, and the world would bow to Napoleon.

Illya _hated_ giving Napoleon this win. But... it was what it was. 

With a shake of his head, Illya left to follow his mission, not looking back. Not needing to look back to know that Napoleon stood there, watching until Illya was gone. The mission would bring them back together again, and that would have to be enough.

* * *

END

**Author's Note:**

> There. Cuddles. ^^
> 
> Russian is via Google translate. Apologies if it's not quite right. (Corrected! Thank you so much, Lerry_Hazel!)
> 
> I should probably explain also that the point of him speaking in Russian there, if it got missed in the fic, was that at the time of the flashback, Napoleon could only speak three languages, not including Russian. By speaking in Russian, and then going over the current events, Illya was drawing him slowly back to current. Because Napoleon's understanding what he said in Russian didn't match with his younger self and created a mental mindmap to bring him back. If you will. That's not based on anything in particular, and again, not really something to for PTSD people you know in reality. Just in the fic.


End file.
